


The Red Wolf

by rideswraptors



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (If you ask Tormund), Gen, No Romance, Petyr dreams and Sansa schemes, Petyr is a cunt, Post Season 6, Protect Jon Snow at all costs, Sansa POV, Super gen, mentions of rape and abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:50:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants to strangle him, for his words to disappear as quickly as Ramsay’s had. She wants his pretty picture to disappear. For her memories of him to disappear. He smiles at her, a nearly imperceptible dip of his head, and the storm rages within her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted a Sansa-Petyr dynamic, but it didn't fit into my multi-chap. Sigh. I hate him so much. I just needed a little catharsis since he's not dead yet.

Sansa smirked as she left the kennels. Not the serene, winsome smile she’d worn so easily in the Vale. Not the shy uplifting of her lips when Jon made her laugh. An all-out _smirk_ worthy of Cersei Lannister herself.

 _One down, one to go_.

That would be her new chant, her new prayer. As she walked through the courtyard, she pulled up her hood and slid her hands into the sleeves of her velvet dress. The Stark banners she had helped sew batted against the thick stone walls, the ones still standing anyway, as the frigid winds of the North howled their triumph. Starks were in Winterfell once more, no longer as prisoners and hostages. And the North cried out her victory. She lifted her face into the gust, smelling snow and pine and earth. Perfect.

When she opened her eyes, there he was. An ever-looming shape on the battlements, awaiting her return. His gaze latched onto her, tracing for signs of harm. He could be such a fool, she thought viciously. Nothing could touch her anymore. Not blades or teeth or claws. Whatever came for her next had better kill her because she knew deep in her bowels that letting the hounds flay her former husband had taken restraint on her part. Poetic justice meant more than her rending him limb from limb with her bare hands in the long run. A prettier story perhaps. _Keep your hands clean_. She watched Jon put his hands to the rail, watched him lean forward intently.

Sansa sighed and ducked her head, changing her course to make for the staircase up to the battlements. Now was as good a time as any to make her apologies. Winter was here.

*

He is too sweet and too good. Too willing to trust her when she’d done absolutely nothing to earn it. Jon is every inch her father’s son, every inch Robb’s brother. Meeting Littlefinger’s knowingly cunning gaze, seeing him in her father’s Hall, her _brother’s_ Hall, as they chant “King in the North!” for him, makes Sansa’s gut roil. She wants to strangle him, for his words to disappear as quickly as Ramsay’s had. She wants his pretty picture to disappear. For her memories of him to disappear. He smiles at her, a nearly imperceptible dip of his head, and the storm rages within her.

There was only one thing left for Petyr Baelish to take from her. Just one. Everything else was forfeit. Everything else could burn. Her home, her body, the heart tree her father so loved. He could have whatever he wanted. The Vale, the North, the Iron Throne. He could sit where he pleased and use whom he liked. He could have coin and paramours and the great lords bending their knees. He could beat her, rape her, kill her, dress her like her lady mother to his heart’s content.

But he could not have Jon. Sansa would _never_ let him have Jon.

 _One down, one to go. One down, one to go. One down, one to go_.

When Jon looked down at her bewildered by his new position in the world, by their faith and loyalty, so completely unexpected, Sansa smiled up at him serenely. In a surge of imprudence, she allowed it to reach her eyes, her love, her pride, her faith in him. _Only Jon_. It would not do for Petyr to see it so plainly on her face, to see precisely what she had left to lose. But for a short moment, she could play the doting, loving sister and smile at her brother triumphant.

When she glanced back at Littlefinger, the shield went back up, her mask stolidly in position.

 _He would not have Jon_. Jon was hers.

*

“He looks like a cunt.”

Jon scowled, sighing heavily and hoping that he didn’t look too beleaguered. But judging from Davos’ expression, he was unsuccessful.

“You think everyone looks like a cunt.”

“But he looks like a devious cunt, like one o’ those thin-skinned, ugly buggering Thenns.”  One of those “thin-skinned, ugly buggering Thenns” called out spirited abuse from across the Hall since Tormund hadn’t bothered to keep his voice down when making that announcement.

“While I cannot attest to the attractiveness of the Thenns,” Davos said wryly, “I do agree with the sentiment. I don’t trust Lord Baelish for shit either.” Tormund looked at Jon and pointed at Davos approvingly.

“This one knows what he’s about, Snow, mark me. And I don’ like the way the cunt looks at Little Red either. Like a fucking vulture circling a baby deer.”

“He does keep a close watch of her,” Davos murmured. Jon sat back in his chair, running a hand over his eyes. A sennight had yet to pass since he had been declared King in the North. They were low on supplies, Winter was already fucking here, and they were ill-prepared for a war with the Others. The last thing he wanted to be fretting about was some dandy of a southron lord his father and sister despised. 

“Sansa says she has him well in hand.”

“And you trust her?” Davos asked, “Even after that stunt she pulled? With Lord Baelish no less. I know she is your sister, your grace, but her time away from you has been spent with _him_. There is some bond between them.”

“I trust her with everything.”

They were quiet for some time. Continuing their meal while the men at other tables chatted amiably and laughed. At the head table they were contemplative, each man trying to wrap their brain around the enigma that was Sansa Stark; for each had a different viewpoint of her. Tormund saw a girl who’d been pushed to her limits, one that would snap soon and take them all down with her. Davos saw an embittered woman, playing a game she was too young to have to understand so well. Jon saw the whole person; the girl, the woman, the beacon of hope, the icy Jewel of the North, the Red Wolf. She was too much for Petyr Baelish to even attempt to contain, too much by half. Jon could not even begin to try it, let alone desire it. You cannot control a snow storm. You cannot tame a wolf.

"Still looks like a cunt."

Jon snorted.

*

He came just as she expected him to. After dark, after Jon had retired, direct to her chambers as if he had a right to that sort of intimacy. He came without knocking, slipping through her door quietly. He was only able to do so because she had dismissed her guards for an hour. He would be gone long before they returned.

“Good evening, Lord Baelish,” she said amicably, bent over her stitching.

“How many times must I ask you to call me Petyr?” His voice was deep and gruff, an affectation of closeness, of intimate conversation.  Sansa lifted her head and gave him the same, lifeless smile she always did, the one he believed was reserved for him alone.

“At least once more, my lord.”

“Stitching something pretty, are we?” His eyes were sympathetic and his smile pitying as he took in the sight of her activity. Good, let him think her bored and useless. Let him think her bitter and cast aside. Never he mind that she had spent the morning pouring through the accounts with Jon. Or that she and the maids had spent hours cleaning the kitchens and the pantries, preparing foodstuffs for the men and the household. Never he mind that she had supped with Jon, Davos, and Tormund in his chambers discussing plans to rebuild. Never he mind that Jon shared with her his plans to acquire more dragonglass, the need for Valyrian steel. Let him think her empty-headed and silly and unable to resist his lure. Even little birds have talons.

“I thought to make Brienne a gown,” she told him, keeping her tone light and airy, but letting her volume drop off tremulously. Let him think her nervous. Let him think her intimidated.  She knew what he wanted now, and he knew nothing of Sansa Stark.

He laughed at her efforts, “I am sure Lady Tarth will be ever so grateful for your generosity, my dear.”

“I do hope so,” she answered dumbly, “Would you like some wine, my lord?” He declined politely and made to move toward the window. A seemingly innocent act, surely, but it put him closer to her. Anyone who came into her chambers might think them familiar. Close. Jon would beat him to pulp on principle. Perhaps that was what Littlefinger was counting on, angering Jon into doing something rash and aggressive. While his back was turned, Sansa inhaled deeply to steady herself, she cast out her senses in hope she would be understood. Her fingers worked her needle through the fabric, prick, push, pull, prick, push, pull.

“I must say,” Littlefinger murmured out, “I was _surprised_ at how things played out with the lords the other day.”

“Were you?”

He turned to face her, hands at the small of his back, “I had hoped we were on the same page, Sansa. That we had an understanding.”

Sansa let out the breath she was holding, purposely keeping her eyes on her work, “I am not certain what to tell you, my lord. My brother—”

“Half-brother.”

She blew past his preoccupation with semantics. “My brother fought alongside these men. He bled for them. Northmen follow strength. Even you know that, my lord.”

“And what happens when he and his army march for the Wall?”

“I rule in his stead. But you already knew that.” Jon intended to make her his Hand. To make her Lady of Winterfell and of the Dreadfort, as was her right. He was going to name her his heir and regent. She would be his queen in all but name. And soon enough, soon enough, there would be war. There would be desperation and plight and suffering. Jon would need a marriage to cement his rule. An alliance beyond question, beyond reproach. He would need an heir, a child. Winter would change everything, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. There was only _one_ viable solution to that. Jon would come around to her side eventually.

“Kings are…so disposable.” His words were a knife to her heart. Had she ever harbored any affection for him, he had just killed it dead. All that remained was icy hatred.

“What do you want, Lord Baelish?” She strove to keep the impatience out of her voice, but she grew weary of his foolishness. These small men with their small minds and their small concerns. Littlefinger wanted a chair to make up for being bullied. He wanted his first love’s daughter to spite the man that woman fell in love with. And he did vile things to accomplish his ends. Ramsay cared only for his own pleasure. For a worthless name that was now dead. He hurt and ruined people for a _name_. Their visions were narrowed to a fixed point, to a singular sight. Sansa had something else altogether in mind.

“Have you thought on my picture?” he asked lowly. Thought on it? She’d thought of naught else but bringing about its ruination. All in due time. All in due time.

“I have thought of little else, my lord.” He smiled in response. Good. Let him think her easily swayed. Let him think her disloyal to the man who’d given her everything.

“And you see the wisdom in my plans, I trust?” Poor choice of words, if you asked her. Littlefinger always insisted that no one ought to trust him.

“I cannot deny that a political alliance between the Vale and the North would be advantageous.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, setting her embroidery hoop aside. “But your forget yourself, my lord. King Jon is head of my house and therefore my guardian, and he is hardly like to accept an offer from the man who coordinated the murder of a Hand of the king, a king, a highborn lady, and his grace’s own beloved father.”

“I have done no such—”

She kept her eyes steadily trained on him, “I lied for you about Aunt Lysa’s death. You confessed to me your involvement in Joffrey’s assassination and Jon Arryn's. And my first husband had long suspected your involvement in my father’s murder.” She stood, hands clasped at her middle, as was proper, and circled around. Her back was angled to the door, slowly stepping. “I had time to think it over after you sold me to the man who murdered my brother, when I was laid up in bed after a night of Ramsay burning lines into my back. Tell me, Littlefinger, what it is you believe my brother will do when you petition for my hand? Do you honestly believe he will not ask me my opinion of it? Do you think he would not inquire as to what kind of man you are?”

“You play your hand too soon, sweet,” he told her smugly, taking a decisive step toward her. As if that would save him. The _thump_ on the door came just when she needed it. Inhaling in relief, she took the last step to the door, opened it, and Ghost trotted in with his teeth bared. Littlefinger gasped sharply, recoiling at the sudden presence of the big white wolf who the Free Folk called “White Demon.” Ghost circled around her legs, and then positioned himself in front of her.

“Do I?” she asked facetiously, moving around Ghost in order to re-take her seat. She took up her embroidery hoop again as Ghost came to sit protectively at her feet. Littlefinger would not dare a move when the direwolf watched him so closely. Ghost had earned quite the reputation, had stuck close to Sansa's side since they re-took the castle. He snapped when men came too close, growled when she grew upset. Ghost's presence soothed her in a way no man ever would. Having him close was almost like having Lady back.

"When you know what a man wants you know who he is," she pulled the thread through the silk and leveled her gaze at him, "and how to move him." She smiled sweetly, "Is that not what you taught me Lord Baelish?"

"Everything you have is because of me. Everything you are is because of me. Your bastard brother is alive because of me. Winterfell is yours because of me."

"As repayment for your crimes," she snapped coldly. "You promised to protect me, and you have me framed for murder. You promised to take me home, and you take me to the Vale where you murder my aunt and have me lie. You promised again to take me home, and you sell me to the monsters who murdered my brother and mother, the woman you claim to have loved. And now another brother is lost to me."

"I never _meant,"_ he started smoothly. But she scoffed loudly, deriscively.

"You never mean anything you do or say. Not once, not ever."

"The Boltons were a mistake-"

"They were traitors. Murderers. Monsters. Ramsay fed his newborn brother to those hounds, did you know that?" Ghost snarled. "He made Theon Greyjoy watch as he raped and tortured me. Theon, who was raised as my brother! What do you think he would have done with me once I'd birthed him a boy? What do you think he would have done to my daughters?!" Ghost was on his feet, snarling and snapping at Petyr, whose hands were raised as he backed away into a wall.

"Sansa, please!"

"Don't you dare address me thus! Don't you dare claim to care for me! Don't you dare ask me to be your wife when all you have ever done is take from me, use me, _betray_ me!"

"You deserve the Iron Throne! You deserve to rule!"

" _With_ you? Alongside _you?_ Do you even hear yourself? How scheming, how pathetic you are?" She sneered as she continued to stitch, her lips twisting in an effort to keep the bile down. "And what do you think Cersei Lannister would say to your plans?" She lifted her gaze to his, bored with this conversation already. "You threaten me, you threaten my brother, you make demands, you look even the tiniest bit suspicious to one of our advisers, and that horrid bitch gets a raven with my seal and my signature attesting to everything you've ever told me. You approach me in private, you petition for my hand, you threaten to take the Knights of the Vale from us, and Yohn Royce will get a raven with my seal and my signature attesting to everything you've ever told me. How long will the lords support you then? How long will you remain Lord Robert's guardian then?"

"You go too far."

"Or not far enough. You have your life, Petyr Baelish, for now. Your actions will decide how long you keep it. Never forget that I know what you are, I know what you want. And if you try to take it, I will kill you myself." He was silent as she returned her attention to her work. He must have tried to move toward her because Ghost snarled and snapped, lunging forward. Petyr yelped and she stolidly ignored it. "Leave, Littlefinger." She didn't relax until she heard the door shut, until Ghost settled again at her feet. She put down her stitching and leaned her head back, letting her eyes drift shut.

"Come Ghost," she said gently as she said her things aside and reached to scratch his ears. She got up and went to the subtle door which adjoined her solar to Jon's, holding the door open to allow the wolf through first. With a sigh, she entered Jon's chambers to find him seated at his desk, reading over ledgers. He greeted Ghost warmly and turned to look at her. Sansa felt his apprising examination, felt him searching for damage. Silly thing.

"He came as you thought, then?" he asked as she poured herself some of his ale. She sat before the fire and kicked off her slippers to stretch her toes, cramped from the strain of keeping herself still in her seat. She allowed herself to slouch and swig the ale she'd become accustomed to. She heard Jon get up, move to sit in the chair next to her.

"To make his proposal again, yes," she answered tiredly. "Did exactly as I said he would."

"And you think he will hold to this new arrangement?"

No, she thought quietly. Not even the smallest chance. Littlefinger was ambitious and now he was desperate. He would make a foolhardy decision, move against her through someone else. He would do something utterly stupid because he did not know the North. He did not understand Northmen. But he was trapped now, with limited movement. An all or nothing play. A move against Jon, probably. And she had forced his hand. Sansa lolled her head to look at Jon's dear face, to see his sweet concern, and she smiled gently to soothe him.

"Of course. No logical sort of person would move against someone who has so much information." Littlefinger would not move logically. "Especially if he believes you're ignorant of his crimes." Confessing all to Jon had been a trial for her. Poor, sweet, ignorant Jon not wanting to believe that one man could be so selfish. Not wanting to believe his family was tortured and murdered for one man's ambitions. He could not even begin to comprehend the depths of Littlefinger's depravity. She would never allow such ugliness to come near him, touch him, _ruin_ him.

"I don't like this. I don't like you playing games with him."

She smiled and reached for his hand. He gave it over easily. Captured hers between both of his, his rough, burned, scarred hands which handled her so gently, so carefully. He pressed a long kiss to the back of hers.

"He won't be a problem for much longer, I promise you," she swore softly.

"Don't make me promises you cannot keep."

Sansa leaned toward him, meeting his pained gaze intently. She dropped her free hand to the top of his and squeezed.

"He is going to die, Jon. He will die slowly for all the wrongs he's done us, knowing that I chose you. That I will always choose you. The last thing he sees of this world will be Stark judgement and Stark faces. I will pass the sentence." 

"And I will swing the sword," he finished solemnly.

"One down, one to go," Sansa repeated. And she leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead, one as loving and gentle as he had given her.

Jon belonged to her. Littlefinger would not have him. Littlefinger would not touch him.

Littlefinger would die.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
